Sunday, May 15, 2011

Rat Trap A Lucifers Apostles Tale

Rat Trap

A Lucifer’s Apostles MC Tale


It’s not that he meant for things to take the turn they did. It wasn’t his initial intention but it was in his nature combined with the speed that took over. His focus simply changed over time. Although for him it never was about the money. Others amassed mountains of it while he remained nearly penniless. Meth wasn’t the drug that drove him although it shrouded his thinking and drove the paranoia. Power was only the aphrodisiac; it was mere foreplay. What truly drove him was the manipulation and ultimate control over people and their lives. It eventually would become worse than a drug. It became his way of life and the near death and ultimate destruction of Lucifer’s Apostles MC!

Chapter One
(The End)

It was cold even for October. The weatherman said that there was a northern blast coming down from Canada and temperatures would really drop over the next few nights. He was right about that Tag thought as he hid in the shadows waiting for his target to show him self.

This act had been rehearsed time and time again, until he knew each step by heart. The plan had taken the better part of a year, to design assuring its success. It took that long to summon all the courage he would need. Killing someone you don’t know is far easier than someone you do. Making the act all the more difficult, when the victim is someone you used to respect and admire.

“Not anymore. Not after all you have done to destroy too many of my Brothers and this club I love”. Reeling in his emotions understanding that now wasn’t the time to rehash all the bullshit. This was go time and tonight the bastard was going to go. The binoculars were overkill, from his location he really didn’t need them but he raised them to his eyes again anyhow.

His wait turned out to be shorter than expected as he watched his target, his Brother, his President walk out the back door of the strip club headed for his bike. The cocky swagger still there after twenty years in this life. His arrogant half smile reserved for chicks and civilians was spread across his face. “Not for long” he thought watching the blond mans every move.

Wednesday night was bike night at a lot of bars in the Valley. It’s ironic, bars that a few years ago would turn the club away were now offering to be a stop on the poker runs and now held a bike nights of their own. This economy really sucked he thought which caused bar owners to act like whores; catering to whoever had the buck and at the moment it’s us, he mused.

Every Wednesday night all my Brothers meet at the Chui’s, in Northridge. We pass out club cards, have a few beers and check out the other bikes. Make small talk with other clubs members who attend. After a couple of hours most of the working guys would split. Then the remaining members would follow our illustrious President to a small cocktail lounge in Reseda for a few more beers and some typical posturing.

With that done, the few remaining stragglers, would somewhere around midnight, go their separate ways. That meant our President would head straight for his favorite titty bar in North Hollywood. He had a long time, on going thing, with the gal that managed the place. He stopped there most nights to see her and find out if he was getting laid that night.

Fortunately, she was a creature of habit and preferred to have sex with him only three nights a week. After watching the pattern for almost a year Tag knew, even if his President didn’t that tonight wasn’t his night; at least not for getting laid!

He shivered the dark sweatshirt jacket no longer enough to keep out the chill. His thick curly black hair swirled around his face from the sudden gust blowing past him. It’s time, he thought watching as the bike pulled out of the alley onto the neighboring street. He of course turned out onto the same street but from the opposite end of the alley.

He stayed back not wanting to crowd the bike or draw suspicion to him self, yet not so far back that he would lose him. Soon he knew they would exit onto a short freeway artery leading to the 138 freeway. He stepped on the gas pedal of the stolen, gun metal gray, 300M passing the bike by a mile.

The bikes headlight could no longer be seen as Tag pulled to the shoulder on the curve of the freeway artery. He quickly slid into the passenger seat, pressing the button which rolled down the window. He hoisted the Remington 870 sawed off, resting its short barrel on the door frame. His finger rested comfortably on the triggers.

With the window down and no traffic on the road, he could hear the bikes approach. Louder and louder, closer and closer, until the bike and its rider were directly next to the idling car. Tag’s steely dark eyes were filled with intensity as took a deep breath. Then he squeezed the trigger gently, emptying both barrels simultaneously; as the magnum rounds exploded into a fiery blast. The bike continued on its original trajectory for a few seconds before veering wildly off course. It’s rider no longer in control. Quietly he whispered into the darkness “tag your it”!

By, Six Shooter Sally
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